Twisted
by Clockwork Hobbit
Summary: France brings Italy the news that will scar both of them. "And the scars serve to remind them that maybe, just maybe, they are all a little bit twisted."


The lights glow brightly in the windows of Italy's simple house, a beacon to light the way, and France feels terrible because he must bring home, in a manner of speaking, the person that the beacon is for, though not at all in the manner anticipated.

Italy has grown since Holy Rome left-he is no longer a little girl-boy in a green dress-but he still clings to any hope for the other's return. Hope is really all the man has, France reflects. But, then, what does that make France himself? He is only going to knock on that door and shatter that hope. He already hates himself, and is sure that Italy will hate him, too.

Despite the trepidation curling like a venomous snake in the pit of his stomach, France knocks on the door of Italy's little house.

"Coming, coming," Italy sings in Italian, voice pure and joyous, and France's self-loathing increases at the idea the thought that he is about to steal that innocence and joy.

The door is flung open and Italy pokes his head out, eyes bright and strange curl dancing. He is dressed simply, like a farmer, though through the open door France can see the signs of wealth. The golden cross gleaming in the firelight. The rapier, though half-hidden, that is clearly expertly made. Far more candles illuminating the cozy interior of the house than a simple farmer would ever be able to afford. All the same, France feels overdressed in the uniform marking him as an officer in Napoleon's army.

"How can I help you-oh, it's you, France," Italy says, tone switching from buoyant but resigned to happy just as his words switch from Italian to French mid-sentence. "Come in, come in."

He ushers France into the house, closing the door behind the visiting nation with a last wistful look into the night. "I was just preparing dinner-would you like some?"

France nods silently-he has not said anything to Italy yet; he does not trust his voice-and Italy points to a chair, telling him to sit as he bustles around, dishing up food.

He hands France a plate (it is not pasta, to France's surprise, but rather a wonderful-smelling fish with fresh herbs and vegetables), and France breaks his silence to murmur thanks.

Italy talks through dinner, though not expecting France to answer. France is thankful for that much-he still doesn't trust his voice. He can't get the broken body of the boy out of his head.

Finally, they finish dinner and Italy offers France a glass of wine. He accepts, of course-one does not discuss anything important without wine, as far as France is concerned.

Wine in hand, Italy leans back in his chair, eyes lazy. "So, what was it you wanted to see me about?" He idly raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip.

France takes a huge swallow of wine, uncharacteristic for him, but he can't do this without some amount of liquid courage. "It's about Holy Rome."

Italy's face lights up. "Is he coming home?" He frowns in thought. "I've changed a lot since then...I hope he stills loves me."

France tightens his grip on his wine glass. Italy is so hopeful, and he has to play the villain and ruin that hope. "Italy…" he begins, then stops. He doesn't know how to do this. Why does it have to be him? He can't do this.

But no, he said that would do, and he always keeps his word. And so, France starts over.

"Italy," he says again, noting the apprehension slipping into the other's eyes. "I...well...Holy Rome…"

"What happened?" Italy begs, a note of panic in his voice.

France takes a deep breath. "He's dead."

There is a crash as Italy drops his wineglass. "No." The word is hardly more than a whisper.

France curls his empty hand into a fist, fingernails biting into his palm. Italy is scrambling on the floor to gather the shattered pieces of glass-to deny his new reality, France is sure. He should help pick up the glass, and normally he would have, but his body is heavy and he can't move and it takes all the energy in him just to watch Italy.

Finally Italy is done cleaning up and he sits in his chair again, eyes blank as he stares at France. There is no sadness there, no anger, no loss-only emptiness. There is nothing there, and it terrifies France.

"How did he die?" Italy asks distantly, and France swears that his heart is going to thump its way straight out of his chest what with how hard it is beating.

"France…?" Italy whispers.

"I...I...I killed him." France's voice is barely audible, so he repeats himself. "I killed him." His voice breaks in the middle of the word 'killed,' and he stares at his folded hands, unable to meet Italy's eyes.

There is dead silence, and, after a few minutes of nothing, France has to look up at Italy. he regrets the choice immediately.

Italy's eyes are on fire, a burning, seething anger clear in them. France has never seen Italy so passionately angry, and it is truly frightening.

"Italy…" he begins. "I am so sorry."

Italy's laugh is a harsh bark. "Sorry?" His voice cracks, and France realizes he is crying. " _Sorry_ , you say, as if that changes anything." He stumbles to his feet, and France recoils. Under normal circumstances he isn't afraid of Italy, but something has changed.

As Italy approaches, France wishes he could run, but knows he can't. That will only enrage Italy further.

Hands slam into his shoulders, and all the breath is forced out of France's lungs. It takes him a moment to regain his breath, and a moment longer to realize he is on his back on the floor, still half on top of the chair he had been sitting in.

He cannot see Italy, and that concerns him. France goes to sit up, sliding off the chair altogether, but before he manages to raise himself to a seated position there is a sharp pain in his chest and he looks down and he's bleeding. His jacket is torn open and becoming soaked with his own blood, and there are terrible choking sobs as the rapier comes down across his chest again and again.

Italy's foot is on France's shoulder as he pins the older nation down and slashes across his entire chest, top to bottom and left to right, and his sobs are so violent it sounds as if he is being torn in two.

Perhaps, though, he is, France reflects in the strange clarity brought on by unspeakable pain. His heart has just been torn in two, and now he has to tear open the person responsible.

Suddenly, the pain means nothing anymore. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts more than the terrible aching realization that this is all France's fault. He deserves everything Italy is doing to him a hundred times over.

The floor is stained red when Italy finally falls to his knees, sobbing, hands wrapped around the hilt of the rapier. It looks as though all the fight has gone out of him, and so France deems it safe to speak.

""Italy," he says softly, voice ragged from screaming he can't remember doing. "Believe me, I am so, so sorry."

Italy's head snaps up, and France realizes his mistake. Italy isn't like the rest of them-his anger does not burn hot and quick. It smolders instead, hidden underneath his happy-go-lucky facade, until something triggers an explosion, and then it is impossible to stop the force of nature Italy becomes. He has to be left to burn himself out.

France is not sure which worse, the pain in his heart that he did this to Italy, or the pain in his chest when Italy stabs him, slowly turning the rapier as he cries, silently this time.

And then his legs give out and he collapses beside France, sobbing quietly. France catches Holy Rome's name in between sobs, and, as he lays in a cooling pool of his own blood, he wishes there was more he could do to help Italy get over the loss of the boy he loves.

Everyday forces France to remember the unspeakable sins he had committed against Italy. But for years, over a century, Italy is perfectly fine around France, even as they fight wars on a scale never seen before.

France is starkly reminded of the terror of Italy's anger when Italy calls him one day.

" _Do you remember what happened in 1805? ...history is about to repeat itself."_

His heart is pounding again, and the wild fear sets in. France places a hand over the gaping scar on his chest as it starts aching again out of the blue-triggered, perhaps, by the fear.

When he reaches Italy's house the other nation is calm, and France relaxes somewhat, though his pulse is still racing more than he would like.

Everything seems normal, at least until France notices the blood. That's when it all goes to hell, and he finds himself on the floor bleeding at Italy's hand for the second time in his life.

Italy is sobbing again, crying again over a blue-eyed blond he loves and is losing, and France cannot hate him, just as he couldn't hate him after Holy Rome's death.

If anything, France hates himself.

* * *

France lives with the scars and the hate, just one more mental and physical scar from his long life. He never forgets what Italy had done, though he easily forgives the other nation, but he does push it to the back of his mind. Thinking about it does him no good.

* * *

The day Germany comes to see him with two guns in hand is the day that France realizes he needs to share the story. For more than a century he had needed to keep it to himself, unable to think about it and pull out that pain anew. But now Germany is panicking over Italy having murdered, and so France makes up his mind.

" _He never did kill me, obviously, but a good portion of his anger was taken out on me…"_

" _Taken out on you..._ how _?"_

 _For a moment, there is silence. Then: "I still have scars that can be seen if you look closely. Would you like to…?"_

 _Germany nods sorely, feeling that he will regret this choice in a moment. France takes a moment with his shirt buttons before facing Germany and pointing at his chest. "You see the lines?"_

 _He sees, alright._

 _They stretch from the center of his upper ribcage-almost to his throat-down far enough that they almost stretch beyond the Frenchman's waistband. They extend horizontally across the entire span of his chest. And in the very center-_

" _He used a rapier," France whispers. "He pinned me down and he cut me open so that the entire floor was soaked in red. And, as his final ministration, he shoved it in right here-" he points to the gaping scar in the center "-and_ twisted _."_

 _It's too much. All Germany can see now is France lying helpless on the ground and Italy standing over him with his eyes reflecting the red pool on the floor and his lips curled in a sadistic smile and holding the sword in position ready to-_

" _He cried."_

 _Germany forces his head up from between his knees._

" _He did," France says again. "He was sobbing the whole time. And I felt terrible-not because of what he was doing to me, but because of what I'd done to him."_

He didn't think it would do this, but having shared the story is a weight off France's chest. He watched Germany leave to find out the story that France wouldn't share, and he can see his own burden lifted to some extent.

Pain always has its part to play. It reminds them that they are still alive. And the scars serve to remind them that maybe, just maybe, they are all a little bit twisted.

* * *

 **Okay, so the weird italicized part (it's the italics that are weird, not the part itself) is the quote from This Hurricane that inspired this whole mess. Read it. I cannot recommend it highly enough. It's like this but ten million times better.**

 **Other than that...I'm sorry? I shouldn't have done this to everyone's feels, but...I live for angst.**

 **Let me know what you think! Favorites are awesome, and reviews make this poor author's day!**


End file.
